Scarlett: A Game of Russian Roulette
by coulsonbaby
Summary: It's only by chance the Afghan Veteran John H. Watson meets and moves in with Sherlock Holmes, right? Because he doesn't think it's fate, and neither does the girl who is a Genius, Musician, Scientist, and Scholar- however, it still seems odd that they happened to meet when they were needing each other most. It is fate however, that the gun pointed at his head was meant for her.
1. Prologue: A Chance Meeting

Tipping back the pint of smooth beer, I scanned the bar, taking in my surroundings. I had been back in London for three months and had already gone through two therapists and four hotels. My military pension was hardly enough to sustain decent living circumstances, and I had recently been considering finding a flat- in that case, of course, I would need a flatmate to help split the fee. The trouble of finding one willing to live with me almost seemed not worth the hassle, but I certainly was not going to stay with Henry. London was my home, and as I had no family in the area, I had no choice but to try to find a man who didn't mind living with a cold veteran suffering from PTSD.

As I contemplated my circumstance, I heard a familiar voice behind me, calling me by name. "Watson? Doctor John Watson?" I twisted in my seat and found myself facing the young Mike Stamford, an unseasoned doctor who had trained under me during his schooling at St. Barts. The young man smiled at me and extended a hand in greeting, one I readily took. Within the hour, we had become reacquainted and had shared a few laughs and tales of our lives since we had last seen each other five years prior. He had been married, and his wife had birthed an infant daughter, while all I had to share were my few brief yet horrific misadventures in Afghanistan.

"Mike," I eventually asked, my state of mind slightly fogged by the alcohol, "how would you like to meet up for coffee tomorrow morning? I haven't seen a lot of my old friends since I got back, and it'd be nice if we could get together to talk more."

"Yes," he said, "I wouldn't mind that at all." We exchanged mobile numbers and shared a cab back to our respective homes with plans to meet up at a café the following morning at ten o'clock sharp.

Upon arrival the following morn at the predetermined destination, however, I found Mike pacing anxiously outside of it, a coffee tray holding three cups in his hands. I indiscreetly checked my watch, and, finding I was not late, walked up to him. "Something wrong, Mike?" I asked as he handed me a coffee.

"No," the thin man replied, "Not a problem, I'd say. It's just... a colleague and I have been working on a study recently and they seem to have had a breakthrough. I was up there a few minutes ago, but came down to meet up with you. You wouldn't mind walking up to Barts with me? We can talk on the way, it's a bit of a walk and a nice day considering." He was right. It was one of those rare blue-skied days in London, and a walk wasn't such a bad idea.

"No, I wouldn't mind at all." I sipped my coffee as we strolled down the streets towards the hospital. "So tell me about this study of yours?"

"Oh, it's a study on how certain chemicals can help preserve DNA. We're working on not only how to better preserve DNA fresh found as evidence, but also how to better detect older, already decayed DNA and make a positive match with it. Very interesting, very useful. Not my idea of course, I'm not nearly that clever, but my knowledge on animal and human chromosomes has been helpful, I'll admit."

"Hmm… that does sound very useful. This colleague of yours must be quite the scientist, then."

Mike laughed good-naturedly. "Sherlock's something else, I'll give you that. So tell me, how have you been getting on recently?"

"Oh, you know," I offered, "I've been trying to settle down, back into the grove of the common man. It's quite strange, adjusting to life here since my dispatch from the military. Actually, though, that does remind me of a point I meant to bring up with you. You haven't, by chance, come across anyone in need of a flatmate? I figure I must be quite the difficult man to live with- I'd be surprised if anyone would be willing to go halves with me. It's really quite too bad, though, because I cannot afford the hotel nor a flat on my own and I am far from normal enough to make a pleasant flatmate for any man."

As I finished speaking, Mike burst into laughter beside me. He was laughing so hard, in fact, that he had to stop walking and catch his breath. I found myself slightly offended, as I assumed it was I he had been laughing at. I would soon realise, however, that I was quite wrong. "Mike?" I asked when he had recovered from his amusement, "Did I say something wrong?"

Mike shook his head and chuckled lightly as we resumed our walk towards the hospital, which was but two blocks away at this point. "No, not at all. It's only that you're the second person I have heard say that this morning."

"What?" I turned surprised towards him, eager at the possible opportunity of meeting a man that might actually be willing to live with me. "So you do know someone, then? Who is it, and can I meet him to talk about the possibility of sharing a flat?"

"Yes, I do in fact know someone. And I think they'd readily share rooms with you, I'm just not so sure you would be so hasty to move in with them."

"Is that so?" I did not find myself persuaded by Mike's caution. At that point, I figured any man willing to live with me would be suitable. Even a violent serial criminal would do, as long as I was left out of his antics. "Who is it, then? I'm sure he's a fine man."

I found Mike chuckling again, and wondered what could possibly be so funny about our conversation. "None other," said he, "than Sherlock Holmes."

"Why," I replied enthusiastically, "I don't see how that is a bad thing at all! From the brief amount I have heard of him, he seems like a fantastic fellow. And I'm sure a scientific man would make a fitting and standard flatmate, save for the few instruments of his trade. I don't see how that would be a disadvantage at all, however. In fact, I think that would only make him a more interesting man to get to know."

Mike gave a wry smile and shook his head sardonically. "I think you will find yourself much surprised by Sherlock Holmes, Watson. More so than you could imagine."

"Well, I guess we will see soon enough." That was the last we spoke of Sherlock Holmes, as we chose to converse more common matters for the rest of our stroll. When we got to St. Barts, I found myself much intrigued by some of the technological changes that had occurred of the four years I had been absent. We entered on the first floor and passed many laboratories and an autopsy room, all of which were equipped with the most novel instruments I had seen. Of course, this awe could have been slightly attributed to my incompetence with technology of any sort. I often found myself having troubles with the smallest of devices, including my laptop and phone, and usually needed someone else's assistance. Technology was amazing to me, yes, I just wasn't too keen with it.

Eventually we found ourselves through a wing of the building I had never stepped foot in, an observation which I was sharing with Mike as we entered a rather spacious room. It seemed to be a chemistry or biology lab, and there was one young female student working behind a long counter on the other side of the room. As Mike informed me of a few more recent renovations, the student came around from behind the counter and scurried towards us. "Michael!" she exclaimed excitedly, "I simply must show you what I have-" She unexpectedly froze midsentence and turned towards me, as if suddenly realising I was there.

When she looked at me, her face lit up. "Oh, an army doctor!" She smiled happily, sticking out a hand in a greeting. I accepted it and was rather surprised by her firm handshake- one that would be rare from a man, let alone a woman. "How long have you been back from Afghanistan?" She inquired curiously, looking me in the eye.

"Three mont- wait. How did you know that?" I was shocked and slightly appalled by her knowledge of me. She only smiled as I turned towards Mike. "You told her, then?" He grinned and shook his head as I turned back to the girl, who was still standing expectantly in front of me. "Who are you anyway?"

"This," Mike introduced, gesturing towards the girl, "is my colleague…"

"…Sherlock Holmes," the feminine voice interjected.

My mind shut down for a moment, like a machine cut short of energy during a power outage. As the gears in my brain slowly started turning again, I was able to begin to process the situation. The girl in front of me was approximately five feet and seven inches in height, with slightly tanned skin and light brown hair. Her frame was rather thin, but not to a sickly proportion. She was decently weighted in the hips and breasts, but extremely lean around her legs and waist. Her build, however, made her seem slightly taller than she was, despite the fact that already had greater height than the average woman. She was clothed in loose jean shorts and a light yellow polo that was rather tight fitting. Over this she wore a white lab coat that seemed to be a slight bit big on her. The most outstanding variable, however, was her lack of shoes. This apparent neglect of footwear was a trait I found odd- quite peculiar indeed- but rather strangely fitting.

My eyes were then drawn to her face. She had strange greenish eyes and prominent cheekbones. It donned on me that this girl was quite pretty, and could draw a crowd if she bothered with her appearance even the slightest. Her even face gave her an air of dominance that was not contradicted by those fierce and intelligent green orbs, and I looked down into them for a moment, trying to read anything I could, but only found myself intimidated in a way that I had not been before- especially in the presence of a woman. "Sherlock…" I repeated slowly, crossing my arms and trying not to draw my gaze from hers, "Holmes? Why, that's a man's name. Is this some sort of sick prank Mike has put you up to?" Despite my inquiry, I knew deep down that it was not, as there was something uniquely perfect about this girl that told me she was exactly who she claimed to be.

Her mocking chuckle confirmed my doubts, as she shook her head sardonically. "No, not at all doctor. I promise that I am exactly who I say I am."

"Your parents then, gave you a man's name?"

Her brow furrowed as she studied my face and I fought the urge to tear away from those knowing eyes. However, those same eyes that made me fidget uncomfortably suddenly had a look of realisation in them as her pupils dilated and she exhaled slowly, "Ahhh..." She stared at me for a few more seconds before giving me an ever-so-small nod of recognition. "Wilhelmina Sherlock Scarlett Holmes. Sherlock is merely the name I choose to go by, for it is of my preference."

I heard Mike inhale sharply beside me as the girl- Sherlock- and I continued in our stoic confrontation. "Well I find it quite… fitting. Albeit strange, I believe that name suits you all too well."

"As good names tend to do." Sherlock quickly spun around, seemingly through with me, and grabbed her coffee from the tray Mike was still holding. "Black," she stated simply, walking away and taking a long gulp of it, "Thank-you."

Sherlock returned to her previous spot behind the counter and fiddled with a few instruments whose names were foreign to me. "Now Michael," she said, "I would like you to observe this for a few moments and tell me what you find."

Mike complied, setting down his coffee and the now empty try on the edge of the counter. Sherlock then returned her gaze to me, looking me up and down quickly. "So," she proposed, "would you find it all to bothersome sharing a flat with a woman?"

I almost choked on my drink as she spoke, but managed to contain myself. How the hell did she- No. I decided this time around not to inquire how she knew this but to instead simply play along. It couldn't hurt. "Don't you think that would be a little inappropriate? I mean, we hardly know each other."

"I promise," she stated sarcastically, rolling her eyes, "that I will not make any sexual advancements towards you. Now I have acquired a nice flat with more than enough room for the two of us to live comfortably, and with the split fee it should be more than affordable. Tell me, John, what habits you would dislike in a flatmate."

Again, she seemed to have information she shouldn't have been able to. And, again, I chose to ignore it- for the time being, that is. "You really may do whatever you please, so long as your habits do not interrupt or hinder my life in any way. I warn you though, I suffer from PTSD and can sometimes be cold and informal. I have been told I can be quick to anger and quite rude when upset." I figured playing along with her game couldn't hurt, and if it came down to it I wouldn't mind moving in with a beautiful- yet eccentric- woman.

"Oh, that shall not be a problem. All those traits are welcome or acceptable. Tell me then, what is your opinion on music?"

"Music? Well I like it quite a bit, if written and performed well."

"Would you mind terribly the presence of a piano in the sitting room? The other instruments that I tend to play include the guitar, flute, and most prominently, the violin. Would it bother you if I were to sit around the flat composing music and playing those instruments?"

"No, in fact I would find it quite swell if you are good at your trade. I find live entertainment quite pleasant." Hopefully this Sherlock Holmes could appreciate a bit of sarcastic humour.

Evidently, she did, as I saw the corners of her lips rise in a smirk. "My habits, then. I tend to go to bed early but wake up late at night and become active. I then go back to bed and sleep late. I eat little and talk less when my mind is preoccupied and have been known to go on for days without uttering a single word. Also, I have the terrible habit of smoking. Would that bother you immensely?"

"All fine so long as I am left at peace. And, whilst I do not smoke, I do not mind being in the company of those who do. Is there anything else?"

"No, I think that should be all. Now Mike and I here have quite a bit of work to be doing and will be occupied for the next few hours. Please see yourself out. I will meet you at noon tomorrow at the address 221B Baker Street. Good day."

And with that, it was as if she simply switched off. She turned to a microscope and became immersed in her observations beside my friend Mike Stamford, who looked equally absorbed. I fidgeted awkwardly in the corner of the room for a few moments before briskly turning and leaving without another word.

As I walked out of the hospital and down the street, hailing a cab, I only had one thought in my head: "Who the hell is Sherlock Holmes, and did I just move in with her?"


	2. Chapter One: 221B Baker Street

I woke up late the following morning, at about ten thirty. I was able to shower and groom myself and by eleven fifteen I was having my coffee and checking my e-mail. The cab I had called would be there in five to ten minutes, so I had time to get a bit of work done. Three messages from the therapist I had stopped going to, which I ignored, eleven spam messages asking me to buy products, which I deleted, and two messages that looked worth my time. The first I opened was from Stamford, offering a lunch the following week and I replied with an affirmative. The second, however, was from my brother. I had felt compelled at first to ignore it but eventually chose against doing so. At first, it seemed to be a basic check-up on me that mother had been having him do, but I soon found that this was not routine. In the e-mail he oh-so-delicately laid out that our father had fallen ill and had been diagnosed with only three months to live. An incurable disease, one the doctors had never seen before. I knew at this news I should be upset in some way, but my father and I had had a poor relationship- at least, that is, in my eyes. I found myself upon the revelation facing no sorrow, and not feeling upset in the least. I deleted the e-mail without replying and quickly left the flat to wait outside for my cab.

It pulled up within two minutes and I directed the cabbie to 221B Baker Street. My watch narrated that I was five minutes early as I paid and stepped out, but Sherlock was already there, leaning coolly against the door and having a cigarette. "Looks like we are both early," I said as I approached her. She was dressed similarly as the day before, but the shorts had become dark jeans and the yellow polo a light green one. She still lacked footwear and was covered by the oversized lab coat. Upon my presence, she extinguished her cigarette and extended a hand.

"Good afternoon, Doctor Watson." I had pondered it the night before, and I figured Mike must have mentioned me before he had left to the coffee shop, and she merely assumed that I was the "John Watson" he spoke of- that was the most practical and obvious of solutions. It was still rather disturbing though, that she had known so much about me and my intentions without being told. I hoped she would enlighten me on how she managed to know what she did.

I shook her hand in greeting and smiled. "John, please. No need to be formal."

"John, then. And you- quite obviously- may call me Sherlock. On your previous comment, I am already here because I moved in three weeks ago. Now, allow me to show you inside."

She promptly turned and led the way through the door and up a flight of stairs into the flat. It was surprisingly contemporary and spacious. The sitting room was large and had two huge windows on the far wall. There was a grey stone fireplace, separating two plush chairs. There was a small sofa, an ovular coffee table, a cluttered desk with an armchair, and shelves lining one full wall. The other was covered with maps and pictures, and below them were three stacks of cardboard boxes. There was a black wood piano- all the furniture, in fact, was a sleek black- in the corner of the room. There were other instrument cases in its company along with stacks of sheet music.

A large archway separated the kitchen from the sitting room, exposing a very messy dining table. There were beakers, files, and scientific looking equipment covering the surface of it while the counters were relatively bare. I walked slowly across the sitting room and peered down the hallway, seeing three closed doors, which I figured to be two bedrooms and a bathroom. Returning to my host, I gave her a nod of approval. "It's a nice flat. Very nice, very spacious."

She smiled proudly as, to my surprise, a woman of about sixty stumbled into the flat carrying a tray with tea and biscuits. "Scarlett!" She scolded, looking at Sherlock, "you didn't tell me your guest had arrived! I would have been done sooner if I had known." She scurried over to the coffee table and set down the tray, wiping her hands on her skirt and coming over to greet us.

"Hello," she greeted sweetly, offering a thin hand, which I readily shook, "nice to meet you. I am Martha Hudson, the landlady here. I'm so sorry if Scarlett has been rude."

"No, not at all!" I looked pointedly at Sherlock out of the corner of my eye, and my gaze quite obviously was asking the question as to why the landlady called her Scarlett.

Sherlock smiled and answered my question, wrapping her arm over Mrs. Hudson's shoulder in a sort of an embrace. "I have known Mrs. Hudson since I was a child; she is a dear friend of my mothers. She has been gracious enough to allow me to stay here cheaply until I managed to find a flatmate."

"That's very kind of you." I smiled kindly at the woman, and gave her a nod of gratitude, "It really is a pleasure to meet you."

"No, the pleasure is all mine! I'm just glad Scarlett has finally found a man to take care of her."

"Oh, um, no," I protested with a cough, "we're not… We're not together, or anything. I mean. We're not, we aren't dating." I must have looked like a bumbling fool, a habit I seemed to be prone to.

"Oh, that's fine then," Mrs. Hudson said, obviously embarrassed by her mistake, "my apologies."

"It's fine, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said kindly. She had a sort of tenderness when it came to this woman, a somewhat protective instinct. The way she looked at her and held her arm over her shoulder was so gentle, it made me wonder if she had seen this woman as more of a mother figure than her own mother. "We're not offended in the least."

Mrs. Hudson turned towards her sternly, "You do need to find a man though. A strong, compassionate man to tie you down and keep you safe. You're too reckless, Scarlett- I really wish you would settle down, darling." She then turned to me, slightly confused, "And you, mister…?"

"Watson," I offered, "Doctor John Watson."

"Do you have a woman, Doctor Watson?"

"No ma'am, I do not." I smiled earnestly at her, "I just recently returned to London and haven't yet had time to settle down, and please, just call me John."

"Oh, that's splendid! Where have you been, then, out of town?"

I cleared my throat and my hand rose involuntarily to rest upon the texture of my dogtags, tucked neatly under my shirt. I could see Sherlock smirking by Mrs. Hudson's side as I proceeded to answer. "Well, I have been in Afghanistan, in the RAMC."

"Oh…" Mrs. Hudson sighed sullenly, her face falling, "I see. Well, erm, I'm glad you're here now. It would be a pleasure to serve as your landlady."

"And it would be a pleasure to stay here, if you will have me. I am pleasantly surprised- this is a very nice flat. If acceptable with the two of you, I would like to move in here- possibly today? I would like to get out of that horrid hotel sooner rather than later."

Sherlock nodded as Mrs. Hudson shooed me out and encouraged me to hurry back quickly. In the cab ride back to the hotel, I found myself pondering that interaction. That they would both so readily except me, after only just meeting me, was astonishing. I figured they might want me over a few times for tea, or get to know me a bit before simply allowing me to move into the flat- in fact, they knew nothing about me, nothing at all! For all they knew, I could be some deranged lunatic, or a scammer, or a government spy. Of course, of those things I was none, but I still found the events that had transpired quite peculiar.

Back in the hotel, I had very few things. One small box of possessions and an oversized suitcase stuffed with clothes- everything else was with Henry, and I certainly was not going to make that visit. I was still mulling over how I was to obtain the rest of my things upon my return to Baker Street, and my head remained clouded as I stumbled up the flight of stairs with my possessions. I found myself, upon my entrance into the flat, completely alone. I set the box and suitcase on the couch and went about the chore of finding my flatmate or the landlady. The sitting room was empty, and there was no-one in the kitchen, so I ventured into the hallway, feeling like an unwelcome trespasser, an intruder. This flat really wasn't mine, and I wouldn't feel at home for a while, of that I was sure.

Just as I was coming upon the first door, I heard footsteps in the hall behind me and spun around. It, of course, was only the landlady. "Oh, Mrs. Hudson. Nice to see you. I was just looking for Sherlock, do you know where she-"

"Yes, yes, she is in her room. Don't ever disturb Sherlock when she is in her room, it's simply a poor idea. Oh, how I wish she spent less time secluded like that- she never lets anyone in there, won't even let me tidy up for her. I haven't been in there once since she moved in, she put a lock in the door and nobody can get in for she has the only key. I'm very worried that she might hurt herself during one of her experiments and no-one would be able to-"

While I had been respectfully listening to her monologue, I felt a need to interject. "Mrs. Hudson," I said, looking her in the eye.

She paused and shook her head to clear it. "Oh, yes. I'm sorry. Please call me Martha. Your room is right over here." She scurried down the hall to the second door and opened it for me, "here you go. That first door is the bathroom; the one at the end of the hall is Scarlett's. Now I have somewhere to be, I'm really sorry, but I must be off. Nice to have you John!"

I barely got to thank her before she was off, down the hall and out of the flat. She really did seem to be in a hurry, I mused. After I had transported my few possessions from the spot on the couch into my room, I returned to the sitting room and sat in the chair farthest from the window with my laptop and opened it in my lap. Logging in, I moused over to Microsoft word and selected a new document, watching the little line flash on the empty page for a few moments before sighing and shutting it down with a huff.

My dream of writing a novel was hopeless. After all these years, I still had no muse.

The next week passed rather monotonously. I made the visit to Henry's and was bullied into setting up plans to go to France in two months to see our family- a chore I was not looking forward to. The day's consisted mostly of my setting up of my things and becoming acquainted with the flat in general. The more time I sat silently in the sitting room across from Sherlock, the more strange she struck me. She would type endlessly away at her laptop for hours on end, about God knows what. When she wasn't typing, she was reading, smoking, or in the lab with Mike. She never had friends come over or, to my knowledge, went out with any. Sherlock Holmes lived a very secluded life. Not only that, but she refrained from any conversation for the most part. We would sit in the same room for hours without exchanging a single word, and after a spell she would just silently rise and return to her bedroom as if I had never been there.

There were a few times, however, when I would draw her into a brief conversation. The second day I was in the flat, I remember moving to the cupboards to find something to eat- and finding to my amazement that there was nothing to eat. Well, let me rephrase. There was nothing real to eat. Crisps, gummy bears, chocolate, cookies, cupcakes, boxed and processed junk foods- in the fridge and cupboards, there was unhealthy junk, and the freezer was stocked with Butter Pecan, Strawberry, Chocolate, and Moose Tracks ice cream. I had walked back into the living room and just stared at her. "Sherlock."

She, of course, was immersed in whatever she was doing on her laptop. "Sherlock."

"Hm?" she mumbled absently without looking up from her work.

"Is there any food in this house?"

"Cupboards, fridge. Ice cream is in the freezer. Don't eat the strawberry."

"No, Sherlock, I mean real food."

At that, she raised her head to stare at me. "Real fo- No. I know some good restaurants, if you wish for a suggestion. If you want something I don't have, you'll have to buy it yourself."

I shook my head unbelievingly as she turned back to her work and I returned to my seat facing her, still hungry.

"Sherlock."

"What now?"

"I have another question."

"Undoubtedly." I stared at her for a moment. She was very blunt when she spoke. I couldn't quite come to a decision on whether it was an attractive or annoying trait.

"Yes, well, the other day. When we first met. Well, you knew some stuff about me that you shouldn't have known, and I was just curious. I mean, I was curious to how you knew my name, and that I was an Afghan army doctor, and how I was searching for a flat mate- in fact I had been talking about it with Mike that very day."

"I know."

"Well, yes. Obviously. I just want to know how."

Sherlock shut her laptop looking slightly irate, and set it down on the coffee table in front of her. She folded her legs up onto the chair and stared at me a moment, fingers steepled beneath her chin. "Asking me to explain myself is like asking someone how to move their fingers."

"I don't understand."

"Of course not. What I read from people comes naturally, a habit or an instinct, you decide. But it's not something I think about. It is a part of me, and asking me how I read something off you would be like asking me how I moved a limb. I don't know."

"Oh please, surely you must."

"Well, yes, if you give me a moment."

She sat there in that odd position for a few minutes, staring off into space. Her posture really was impeccable, something admirable to even a military man such as myself.

"Do you wish for me to tell you everything I read, or just the main and relevant points."

I gave one sharp, determined nod. "Everything." I could have been imagining it, but I swore that a smile was dancing upon the edges of her lips upon my quick reply.

"I will start from the beginning. You are approximately six feet in height. You wear light, plain clothing but carry yourself with confidence. Your posture is that of a military man, and your hair is kept neat and short. When you first walked in, I heard only your voice- firm and sharp. You got straight to the point and were very sure in your disposition. Before I even saw you I pegged you as a doctor, due to your conversation as you entered the room. You and Mike were discussing recent changes to the building. Doctor. When I noticed the tan line out of the corner of my eye, it was undeniably obvious. Everything about you screamed military doctor- not to mention the presence of the faint indent of your dogtags beneath your shirt. Also, you took your coffee black and carried it in your right hand even though you're left handed. Now, the name and desire for a flatmate came simultaneously. I had already observed all this from you, and was aware that your last name was Watson, due to a mention of you by Mike. Now, the name Watson seemed strangely familiar to me, but I couldn't place my finger on it. It struck me when you said, I quote, 'Sherlock… Holmes? Why, that's a man's name! Is this some sort of sick prank Mike has put you up to?' and then, upon my response, 'Your parents then, gave you a man's name?'"

Sherlock stopped talking momentarily and hopped out of her chair, moving over to the desk and fishing through a pile of newspapers before drawing one near the bottom of the pile out. She tossed it lazily at me as she resumed her former position on the chair.

"… every wounded soldier made it out alive that day due to the valiant acts of six extraordinary individuals: Steven Willis, Matthew Scott, Alex Rayne, Leo Mason, Arthur Smith, and," she stated in a mocking monotone, "John Watson. These men not only made multiple trips between the base and a safe zone on foot, carrying the men, but they were also able to preserve vital information that could not fall into enemy hands. In this fiasco, two of the men, Matthew Scott and John Watson, were injured. Both have made a full recovery, however, and have continued their respective lives in our great city of London."

She stared at me pointedly for a moment before continuing- I was just surprised she had memorized the article, word for word. "I had read that article two and a half weeks ago. Apparently the gap between government and the media was larger than I thought. I'll have to keep that in mind. You, of course, would be curious on how I knew you were looking for a flatmate. That was the easiest, after all, since I had already gained all the facts. Injured war veteran, obviously unemployed, of course you are looking for a flatmate! And I was aware my name had been mentioned due to a complaint that morning to your friend Michael, and the fact you were so stuck on my being a man. It seemed that you were expecting and even relying upon my gender being male. Therefore, I had been mentioned as a possible suitor for a flatmate. I really don't see the problem, but you have been noticeably uncomfortable these past two days. Undoubtedly it is because you feel some sort of a sexual admiration towards me." This last bit she added absently as she reopened he laptop on her lap and resumed the previous typing.

I remained silent and awed for a second. That she had been able to read so much off me, learn so much, without hardly a word from my mouth… Amazing. Brilliant. Simply brilliant. She was wrong on just one point, of that entire deduction she got just one thing wrong. After another moment, I spoke. "Six foot one."

"Whatever you say," she mumbled, waving me off lapsing into complete silence for the rest of the day.

Our exchanges went on in this fashion. I would ask questions and she would grill me. It was interesting, yes, and I learned a lot I would never use, but got to be a little annoying. You could not have a regular conversation with Sherlock Holmes. She was too blunt, too withdrawn, and too critical. It got to the point where for most of the second week I spent my time out with friends or in my room searching for a muse.

At the closing of the second week, however, I found myself sitting in my chair, watching the rain pour heavily outside. Even for London, the storm was a bit too much- despite the fact that it was midday, the sky was clouded over and black as night. A fire was crackling, and Sherlock was sitting across from me reading a book. I noticed something odd, though, about the cover of the book. I couldn't understand it. "That's in German."

"Yes."

"You speak German?"

"Natürlich."

"Was that German, then?"

"Yes."

During this exchange she did not look up from her book- something I had found exceedingly irritating throughout the two weeks I had known her. She never paid her full attention to anything, save her experiments.

"How do you know German?"

"My father taught me."

"So he was German."

"Yes."

"So you're German."

Finally, she marked her book and set it to the side in exasperation. "My father was the German Ambassador to Britain, and my mother the only daughter of a wealthy businessman here in London. Satisfied?"

"No. Your skin is much too dark to be German and English- at least as a Londoner." I felt proud of myself for this observation. Maybe she was starting to wear off on me. Then again…

"Oh!" she stated with sarcastic surprise, leaning back in her chair and clapping her hands slowly and purposefully. "I applaud you. What a sound, in depth observation!"

"Fine. What is it then."

"Five weeks ago I returned from a three month long archeological dig in South America. Peru. My skin would naturally have tanned during that time. If it is any condolence to you, within the next two or three months, my skin should fade back to it's natural colour."

"Oh."

"Done?"

"Um. Yes."

I honestly felt a little stupid as she pointedly resumed reading. It should have been obvious that she had been on holiday. Now that I looked at it, she even had tan lines. Being in the presence of Sherlock Holmes really makes one feel idiotic, something I have learned over time to be arguably true. Over the next hour, I began to dose off- that is, until I was awakened by the bell.

"Sherlock. Was that the bell?"

"Yes."

"Well I have no one invited. Could it be one of your friends?"

"I have none."

"Oh…" I, mean, I guess I had known that. She didn't seem like the type of person to hang out, and I had yet to hear her talk about anyone. But no friends at all? I found that rather sad. "Who, then, could it be?"

Silence.

By this point I didn't even try to draw her attention away from the book. I just wanted her to answer my question, that was all I asked. "Why would anyone be out on a day like today?"

"I'm sure it's just a friend of Mrs. Hudson's."

That made sense. I listened as the door opened downstairs and I heard conversation. The voice I heard definitely belong to a man, though the words he was saying were not clear from downstairs. After a minute or two, however, I heard the faint sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs.

"I do not encourage visitors," Sherlock called archly, eye's on her book. The footsteps stopped momentarily, but continued after a second. I just stared at her, my jaw hanging open. How could she be so rude when she didn't even know who it was?

"Close, your mouth John, we have a guest."

Just as she said this, a man walked into the room. He was approximately six feet tall, and was slightly heavy set- I was unsure whether it was muscle of fat, though, that made up his bulk. He wore a soaked coat and hat, which he hung promptly on the rack without a word. His dress was slightly formal, like that of a man who had traveled straight from work. He wore pleated khaki pants and a tucked in collared shirt, and he looked well groomed in general.

"How are you, Sherlock," said he, a bit bluntly. There was an odd sort of tension between them as Sherlock kept her eye's level on the page she was reading, and the mans on her.

"Just stopping by to check in on you. Offer you back your position on the force. Twenty percent pay increase. Your own office… please. We are willing to negotiate. We've gone up since last time. We just need you back."

My eye's literally bulged out of my head. A twenty percent raise? I didn't care what the job was, I would have taken it then and there. I could have been shoveling cow manure, for all I cared- twenty percent was a lot of money. But, of course, this was Sherlock we are talking about.

"No."

"Sherlock, please, this isn't-" his voice sounded almost pleading. I couldn't help but wonder what this all could possibly be about. I hadn't the faintest.

"Chief Constable Gregson, while it is an honour to have you visit me, I would have to request that you leave. As you can see, my friend and I are quite busy."

I found myself slightly taken aback. This man was the Chief Constable of the Scotland Yard? What was he doing talking to Sherlock then? As he looked between the two of us and our obviously lack of anything "busy," he gave an exasperated sigh. "Please at least consider it, Sherlock. Good day, sir."

"Good day, Chief Constable." With that the man took up his coat and hat, and headed back into the storm.

After a moment of silence I spoke. "You knew it was him, didn't you. When you called out that you did not encourage visitors?"

"Yes."

"Okay."

I fell silent for a moment, reflecting on the interaction that had just occurred.

"So what did he want?"

"Me back on the force."

"Ah." She continued to read as the fire started to die down. I moved to turn it u, as it was starting to get a bit chilly. "You worked for the Scotland yard, then."

"Yes."

"And you aren't there anymore because…?"

"I quit."

"Ah." Back in my seat, I picked up the paper I hadn't finished reading that morning. Of course, my curiosity would not allow me to concentrate. And, while I felt slightly foolish, I continued to inquire further into this little Scotland Yard mystery. "So, then, why did you quit?"

I looked up to meet an intense glare from over her book. "Because," she growled, "the police force is incompetent, they don't know how to work together, it's half politics, and, frankly, they're all idiots. Tobias there is decent. In fact, he was actually acceptable as a Detective Constable. But he took the job as Chief Constable, and the politics have made him absolutely intolerable. The entire system is flawed. I couldn't work there, so I quit to focus on science. I had the opportunity to go on an archeological dig, but came back early because Michael had a breakthrough in the study, and I wanted to work on it. Tobias seems to think that gives him right to harass me into rejoining the met. And that, frankly, will never happen."

"I see."

She stood abruptly and took up her book and laptop in her arms. "I will be retiring for the evening. Good night."

I checked my watch. "It is only three twenty six…"

"Good night John."

"Good Night Sherlock."

As I heard a door shut down the hall, I tugged my laptop onto my lap and logged in, getting the password wrong the first try. Opening a word document, I compiled a list. It read as such:

{Sherlock Holmes

Flaws:

-Blunt; Rude; Socially inept

Perks:

-Attractive; Intelligent; Resourceful

Habits:

-Eats only junk food; reads excessively, either German, or nonfiction; likes to show off; observes traits in people; uses laptop excessively (not sure for what); spends a lot of time locked up in her room (not sure what she's doing); goes on long walks through the city; doesn't wear shoes (not sure why)

Skill Set:

-Knowledge of Literature- none

-Knowledge of Philosophy- none

-Knowledge of Politics- only what's in the papers

-Knowledge of Botany- decent. Knows about drugs and poisons, but not gardening

-Knowledge of Geology- seems to know about different types of soil, but other areas of geology suffer. Her knowledge is limited, but strong.

-Knowledge of Chemistry- Exceedingly in depth. Her knowledge is profound and amazing in this field. She knows elements by their molecular setup and can tell you the type of reaction different elements or materials would have to each other simply by name.

-Musically inclined, plays violin, piano, flute, and guitar- while I have not been witness to this yet, she claims to be skilled.

-Knows British Law, was in Scotland Yard

-to be continued-}

I typed this out and saved it under an unrelated name, password protecting the document and the folder it was in. Sherlock Holmes might make good inspiration for a character someday. I didn't want to risk somebody stealing my characters before I even had my muse. I figured, too, I could add more to her profile as I learned more about her. After all, it had only been two weeks. Who knows what mysteries this girl was keeping concealed that I might later uncover. I could only hope that she would make an adequate lead character.

Living at 221B Baker Street, so far, had proven to be slightly productive.


End file.
